Painting

I've been painting a lot lately, every day when I can get inside the studio, altogether too much. It's so consuming, being there. The scents of oil paint and canvas stretching through. The smallest sounds, of pencil whispering to paper and the voices echoing from the CD player. This is my piece of Heaven, I could spend my whole life here, grow grey in my old shirts and jeans. Barefoot against the stone of the floor, mixing colours. But then, what would I be missing out on?

I would miss my little Brother's laugh. I would miss Summer and Winter. I would miss the dirt. I would miss the river, and chocolate and my family (on an almost equal basis-just kidding...I think). Everything I love. I forget sometimes that Art is just that, an image in flux, dependent upon ideals (or nightmares) rather than real life and the conditions it bares.

I wrote this to persuade myself that it is not good to be so absorbed in any one thing. Everything in moderation, or so they say. So they (my parents) tell me. So I tell myself. But I am almost out of time, this Summer, and am coming to the realisation that things will never otherwise be as they are now. I am sixteen years old, and without care.